


this and that of you and me

by papered



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-27
Updated: 2011-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:10:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papered/pseuds/papered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years of Valentines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this and that of you and me

**Author's Note:**

> for kitschful; prompt: "passage of time"

1\. the first year

 

The first time Arthur meets Eames, it's in Vienna, on February the 14th.

They don't know each other, not officially anyway. Eames isn't exactly new to the dreamshare scene, but apparently knows the importance of keeping his mouth shut, so there's not a lot of information about him - but Arthur's the point man for a reason. Which of course means that he knows pretty much everything someone can know about Eames without actually interacting with him. He knows that Eames is ex-military, has fake passports and credit cards under the name of "Jonathan Holmes", and was staying in Glasgow before he was contacted for this job. He knows that they're both after the same mark but on opposing extraction teams with contradictory goals.

He is, as Arthur finds out, also the singularly most annoying person Arthur has had the displeasure of meeting in a long time.

 

It's a tricky job, and one thing leads to another but Arthur somehow finds himself in a fistfight with Eames the second level under. Eames has a nasty right hook and Arthur ends up with a black eye and a split lip, but when the timer runs out, he's managed to handcuff Eames to a desk, break into the mark's subconscious safe, and tuck the needed information safely away, so he counts that as a victory.

 

~

 

2\. the second year

 

When Dom said they would be working with a forger on the next job, Arthur had assumed that he would be bringing in their regular contact - after all, it's not like forgers are common or anything in their line of work. What Dom fails to tell him beforehand is that Alicia Kingston is apparently still holding a grudge from the last time Dom had worked with her and she'd ended up with a broken hip - and also, she's thinking of retiring. Either way, she's not going to work with them.

"Arthur, it's you!" Eames says as he waltzes into the room. He's wearing a multicolored pinstripe dress shirt with his suit pants and a ridiculously bright grin, and it's not even 9AM yet. Arthur kind of wants to throw up on him.

"You," Arthur says.

Dom beams. "I didn't know you two knew each other!"

"We don't," Arthur replies at the same time Eames says, "We got ... acquainted on the Darvill job," with all the suggestive insinuation to give the wrong idea.

"You mean you punched me in the eye after you tried to steal the information out from under my nose," Arthur says, deceptively casual.

"Oh, don't be like that, darling! It was only after you shot me in the leg," Eames replies, his tone light and unconcerned as if they're talking about the weather.

Arthur takes vindictive pleasure in the way Dom looks between the two of them and blanches.

 

The mark is eighteen, the son of a paranoid multibillionaire, and has more security than the average royalty of a small country. Their opportunity appears on Valentine's Day, when Lawrence Winston Ignatius the Third sneaks out of his father's mansion to spend time with his girlfriend. Arthur dresses up as a taxi driver and conveniently drives back and forth along the adjacent street until he gets hailed, at which point he drives the mark to the next intersection where Eames and Dom are in place to jump into the back of the cab.

Lawrence makes a valiant attempt to get away as soon as he realizes that something is going on, but it doesn't exactly take much to subdue a teenager with more bones than muscle mass. Eames takes the chloroform-soaked cloth out of his pocket and presses it to Lawrence's face, and Arthur waits until he's gone still to pull into the secured underground car park.

 

It should have been a run-of-the-mill extraction - which, of course, means that complications happen, unexpectedly hostile projections show up, etcetc, and the cat gets let out of the bag. Luckily, Dom is close enough to the safe that he's already well on his way to getting the needed information. Unluckily, the projections Arthur have been keeping an eye on all go nuts.

"Fuck," Arthur says, giving up on subtlety as he reaches for his gun.

He gets the closest three before they can get any closer, but the fourth topples before he can shoot, leaving a familiar figure behind it. "Aren't you glad to see me?" Eames asks, blowing nonexistent smoke off the tip of his gun in an exaggerated and ridiculous manner.

Before Arthur can comment though, Eames is sweeping past him. "Better go," he says, nudging at Arthur's shoulder as he gestures to the angry-looking crowd making their way closer.

They run. Arthur is good at running - it's practically a job requirement - and Eames keeps up effortlessly at his side, his legs eating up the distance easily. They race down two corridors, up a spiral staircase, through three rooms filled with paintings that look like they should belong in museums, and down another hallway.

"Have dinner with me after this?" Eames asks as they're passing through the kitchen where rogue projections armed with knives stare menacingly at them.

" _What?_ " Arthur says, sure that he's misheard as he pauses to shoot at the ones getting too close for comfort. He turns to look at the other man, a comment on the tip of his tongue - but before he can say anything else, he hears it: the strains of Edith Piaf filling the whole room and signaling that time is almost up.

"Think Dom's gotten the safe open by now?" Eames asks.

"I'd think so." Arthur checks his watch. "It's been, what, half an hour?"

"Good." Eames smiles crookedly. "I'll meet you outside our hotel at seven o'clock then, Arthur," he says with a smile, and then he shoots himself out of the dream while Arthur is still gaping at him.

 

Arthur stares. He doesn't mean to, but he does.

"Is that _Zegna_?" he exclaims, throat abruptly dry as he takes in the peaked lapels and full Windsor and the way the striped pants showcase Eames' legs to perfection. Until now, he'd never seen Eames in anything but obnoxiously bright patterns and distastefully loud colors.

Eames laughs, and Arthur abruptly flushes as he realizes how obvious he's being.

"Finally impressed you, have I?" Eames says while looking delighted with himself. "Here," he said, gesturing to the waiting cab before Arthur can further embarrass himself. "Let's not keep the driver waiting too long. I hope you like Japanese."

Dinner turns into an extended dessert period (during which Eames eats his banana split in a truly obscene manner), which turns into post-food drinks, which somehow ends with the two of them stumbling out of the elevator on the floor of Arthur's hotel room, Eames' hand almost unnaturally warm on the small of Arthur's back.

Arthur's not drunk - more like pleasantly buzzed - and he lets himself be guided into his room easily. Eames' smile is predatory as he pushes Arthur back onto the king-sized bed, and Arthur is suddenly intensely aware of how much bigger Eames is. They're both about the same height, but Eames is all broad shoulders and muscled biceps and it's never been more obvious than it is now, with Eames pressing him into the mattress. Eames climbs onto the bed himself, crawling between Arthur's legs, and there, with Arthur's thighs bracketing his hips, he pulls off his (deliciously form-fitting, his brain supplies automatically) suit jacket and starts to unbutton his shirt.

The intensity of the desire that crawls up his spine surprises even Arthur himself.

"Hurry," he says, the word slipping out of him before he can stop himself, and watches Eames' eyes go dark.

Eames finishes pulling off his shirt, then pulls Arthur upright so that he can kiss him. Arthur leans into it, a little breathless but reveling in the heat of it as he makes quick work of his own clothing. Feeling impulsive, he presses the heel of his right hand to the tent in Eames' trousers.

Eames shudders against him, going boneless for a second before suddenly pulling back. "Arthur, are you sure?" he asks, seeming to hesitate for the first time that evening.

If asked a day ago, Arthur would never have imagined willingly ending up in a situation like this with Eames, of all people - but faced with it now, the answer comes easily. Arthur gives him a long, slow smile and reaches down to unzip his own trousers in response.

Eames gives a low moan, and reaches down to help him.

They don't talk much for the rest of the night.

 

In the morning, Arthur wakes with a suppressed groan to the sight of Eames still asleep and drooling into the pillow next to him. He just looks at him for a few minutes, eyes tracing over the hopelessly messy hair and the sweep of Eames' forehead. A part of him is surprisingly content while another can't believe last night actually happened. With a sigh, Arthur stares at the ceiling, trying to prepare himself and figure out the most appropriate thing to say later when he hears a small sound from beside him and realizes that Eames' eyes are already open.

"'Morning," Eames says, apparently still barely awake. His voice is husky and thick with sleep, but when he smiles at Arthur, his eyes are sincere, like there's nowhere else he wants to be. With a big yawn, he rolls over and stretches.

"Good morning," Arthur manages in reply, his work-in-progress speech suddenly stuck in the back of his throat as he catches sight of the tattooed chest he'd spent so long getting to know last night. Fighting back a flush, he manages to tear his eyes away.

Eames chuckles, as if knowing exactly what he'd been thinking. Rather than tease though, he sits up instead, his stomach growling a little as he does.

"Have breakfast with me?" he asks. The curtains are still open, since neither of them had bothered to get it closed last night. Eames' hair catches the sunlight, the strands turning a golden brown as he lazily reaches back to scratch at his neck, and Arthur finds that he doesn't want to say no.

 

~

 

3\. the third year

 

For once, Arthur doesn't have a job on Valentine's Day.

He's going to take the day to himself, he decides. He's going to sleep in, and then make himself from breakfast, eat while watching TV on the 40" flat screen he'd bought but never really had a chance to enjoy, take a walk, read one of the books on his bookshelf, maybe even go out to the French place around the corner for lunch. He has the day free, and he's going to relax, and he's going to enjoy himself, and...

... and Eames is in Dubai, finishing up a job.

Arthur rolls over in bed and stares blankly at the ceiling. The clock reads 7:35.

Dubai, where Arthur could easily have chosen to spend his off-time, because it's not like he doesn't have the money or resources to follow Eames there - but instead, he'd come back to his dusty, abandoned apartment in Los Angeles, because it's not like it's a big deal or anything, it's not like he and Eames are _dating_ \- and they don't need to spend all of their free time in the same cities as each other.

Even if they more or less had, over the last year.

Arthur gives the ceiling another minute of consideration before sighing and untangling himself from the blankets. He checks the clock: 7:39. It seems like he's just not made for sleeping in after all.

He's planning to make breakfast, except it turns out that his fridge is empty - and of course it is, he hasn't lived in this apartment for at least a year - so he reaches for the stack of takeout menus in the left drawer by the dishwasher instead. There's lots of options - dim sum from Hon's House Of Noodles, the Italian bakery with the delicious paninis just a ten minute drive away, a full English breakfast from the place two blocks down... but none of them does delivery, and Arthur doesn't particularly feel like getting dressed and making himself presentable.

Which is how he ends up eating pepperoni pizza at 8:30 in the morning.

Halfway through his third slice, his phone rings.

"Darling," Eames' voice says through the speaker, and Arthur refuses to admit that just the sound of it has him feeling a little better. "What are you doing right now? Missing me yet?"

"Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"Oh, don't be like that. What are you wearing right now?"

Arthur rolls his eyes and prepares to deliver a scathing retort when he hears a shuffling sound from outside his door.

"Hang on a second," he hisses into his phone, immediately alert as he sits up and grabs one of the handguns he'd hidden around the apartment. As far as he knows, only two other people know the location of his Los Angeles apartment. One of them is his mother, and the other one is on the phone with him right now. The fact that whoever's outside his door is apparently just standing around instead of knocking immediately has Arthur suspicious. Clients and business associates usually call - it's only the kidnappers and assassins who show up at his door.

Preparing to fling the door open, drag whoever it is inside, and threaten them until they give up who hired them, Arthur takes a moment to peer through the peephole first.

And then he flings the door open and glares.

"Did I scare you, darling? Forgive me," Eames says with a winning smile, then thrusts the bouquet of red roses in Arthur's face.

"What are you doing here? What happened to Dubai?" Arthur glances around and sees one of the curtains down the hall move. "Come in before the neighbours see you," he hisses.

"We finished up early," Eames says with a shrug, settling himself down on Arthur's couch without invitation. "Do I smell pizza? I'm starving."

Arthur shoves the rest of the box at him, trying to seem annoyed, but he can't even pretend to himself that he's not ecstatic about this development. With an involuntarily loud sigh, he goes to find a vase for the roses instead.

"What's wrong?" Eames asks. It's an innocent enough question, but it hits a nerve.

 _I'm too invested in you,_ Arthur thinks, but just shrugs in response. He's overthinking and being ridiculous, possibly. "Let's just go out for breakfast properly," he says instead, aiming for a smile. "How do you feel about Italian?"

"What about we go out for lunch instead?" Eames says, finishing the last of his slice as he pushes away the pizza box. Arthur looks at him blankly for moment, but then Eames is standing up and pulling Arthur close and maneuvering them so that they're heading for the hallway where the rooms are, and his intentions have never been more obvious. "It's been a while since I've seen your bedroom, pet - aren't you going to show me around?"

"That is the worst line I've ever heard," Arthur says, trying to sound unimpressed, but he's smiling a little as he lets Eames casually wrap an arm around his waist. "But if you try hard enough, maybe you can convince me that food can wait until lunchtime."

"Sounds like a challenge," Eames grins, wide and easy. "And you know how much I adore challenges."

 

They don't end up quite making it to lunch.

 

~

 

4\. the fourth year

 

Eames almost dies on Valentine's Day.

Arthur had never exactly believed that he and Eames would live to a ripe old age, considering their line of work, but he'd never expected something as trivial and _normal_ as a car accident to wind Eames up in the hospital either. The girl who had hit him was just a student, barely twenty, and she'd been running late for her date with her boyfriend. She hadn't noticed Eames cutting across the street outside Arthur's apartment building until it had been too late.

Dom has to leave by eight to get back to his kids, but Ariadne stays with him overnight and waits with him in the uncomfortable  plastic chairs outside the room they've placed Eames in. A nurse stops by to remind them that visiting hours are over, but she must see something in Arthur's expression, because she walks away before forcing them to actually leave.

"You know Eames isn't going to go down like this," Ariadne says encouragingly. "Don't give up, Arthur."

"I'm not," he says, and he means it - he would never, because had their positions been reversed, he knows Eames would never give up on him.

 

Around dawn, the doctor comes and tells them that the surgery went well. Eames is going to make it. He'd have to stay in bed for a while, and he had some nasty broken bones, but he's going to be just fine.

"Darling," Eames says when Arthur walks into his room. His voice is hoarse and he's still hooked up to so many monitors, but the relief that careens through Arthur is enough to make him dizzy. He has to stop for a moment to steady himself on the side table before settling heavily into the empty chair beside the bed.

"If you ever do anything so careless like let yourself be hit by a car again, I'm going to kill you," he tells Eames after a moment of silence. His voice comes out unsteadier than he would have liked.

Something softens in Eames' eyes. "I'll do my best, darling," he says, followed by "everything's okay now," like he actually means it, and when he reaches out, Arthur lets him thread their fingers together one by one.

 

~

 

5\. the fifth year

 

The fifth year, Arthur finds a book on his desk at the warehouse they're working from, next to a bouquet of red carnations.

 _Love Poems_ , it says, just simple black script against a cream cover, subtitled _Romantic Poetry Through The Ages_ , and Arthur doesn't need to see the sticky note on the back to know that it's from Eames.

Eames has apparently always had a fondness for poetry. Arthur didn't discover this fact until after Eames had moved in with him though, and the only reason he finds out at all is because Eames insists on writing out lines from Browning and Wilde and occasionally, Tennyson, with sets of fridge magnets (ones that actually contain words like "thee" and "whence" which he orders off Ebay). Arthur likes to pretend it's one of Eames' less endearing qualities, but secretly, he actually finds it kind of sweet.

"Oooo, is that from Eames?" Ariadne asks, standing on her toes to try and read the title, but Arthur lifts the book above her head and waits until she finishes pouting and goes back to her building models before flipping over the cover.

Skimming through the pages quickly, he catches a flash of orange near the beginning that has him slowing down and turning back. There, on the table of contents, one poem is marked with a star. _Sonnet 43, Elizabeth Barrett Browning_ *.

 _How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,_ it starts, and if that isn't some sort of declaration, Arthur doesn't know what is.

He reads through the rest of the poem with something warm unfurling in his chest, spreading out and growing like something ready to take flight. "Where's Eames?" he asks out loud when he finally gets to the end. His voice sounds oddly loud to his own ears.

"He said he was getting coffee, wasn't he?" Ariadne shrugs. "Just the place around the corner."

She's looking at Arthur with open curiosity, but this time, she's going to have to live with it. With a decisive nod, Arthur puts the book down and strides out of the room without bothering to make any excuses.

He runs into Eames just downstairs, where Eames happens to be juggling five cups of coffee with the help of a paper cup-holder. "Arthur!" he says in delight when he sees him. "Did you come chasing after your caffeine? Here, yours is the cup on the corner."

Eames is wearing a truly disgustingly yellow shirt with his favourite gray trousers, and Arthur can't help the wave of sudden, undeniable fondness just at the sight of him. Rather than take the offered cup, Arthur grabs the entire paper tray from him instead. Carefully, so that he doesn't spill any, he puts the whole thing on the ground.

"Arthur? What's going on?" Eames asks with a frown, and then his eyes are widening comically as Arthur closes the distance between them. But all the same, his hands come up automatically to draw Arthur in. "What are you doing? Arthur? Wait, are you trying to _hug_ me--"

"Eames. Just shut up," Arthur says finally, and with a small laugh he can't hold back, he's leaning in to kiss him. Eames freezes a little out of surprise, but then he's kissing back with a quiet _oh_. He tastes like coffee and cigarettes and something familiar, his grip a steady pressure against Arthur's shoulders, and Arthur thinks to himself that everything's going to be just fine.

 

 

 

("I can't believe you kissed me in public," Eames says afterwards, sounding immensely satisfied with himself.

"It was hardly public," Arthur scoffs. "There was no one else around."

"Yes, but someone could have walked by. Or one of the others could have come downstairs."

"Eames, shut up," is Arthur's brilliant and well thought out reply.

Eames does so, but when Arthur gives him a sideways glance as they walk upstairs with everyone's coffees in hand, Eames' smile is brighter than the sun.)

 

 

 

 

* _Sonnet 43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.  
I love thee to the level of everyday's  
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.  
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;  
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.  
I love thee with the passion put to use  
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.  
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose  
With my lost saints!---I love thee with the breath,  
Smiles, tears, of all my life!---and, if God choose,  
I shall but love thee better after death.


End file.
